A Brick in My Pocket
Today is the anniversary of our daughter’s birth. Thirteen years ago, two days before her thirty-eighth birthday, she fell to her death climbing a mountain in central British Columbia. Thirteen years ago . . . which at times feels like thirteen days ago.
It is said that time heals. But that only applies if and when a person does certain things . . . avails him or herself to activities and people that help enable the healing process. Different things work for different people, but intense grief can continue unabated if one disregards the activities which can assuage the pain.
The grief that accompanies the death of a loved one, especially of one’s child, will always be present. The way I experience that with our daughter’s death is akin to having a brick in my pocket. If you have a brick in your pocket you can bet you will always sense its presence. It’s real and it’s heavy. But the brick in my pocket is a good heavy. My memories of Jenny are wonderful and life-giving.
I don’t thank God for her death . . . but I daily give thanks for her life. She was a gift. She always will be.